Rhapsody in the Key of X
by Alderaani Writers' Guild
Summary: Tycho Celchu thought that his life was finaly coming together. When an old friend pays a visit, however, it all begins to unravel.


Author's Note: This is an Emi fic. Angst is yet to come, feedback will   
influence where the story goes from here, so speak your mind. Don't   
worry about Meg, She's simply an OC who will be explained later   
  
Disclamer: C'mon, do you REALLY think I own Star Wars?   
  
  
  
  
Rhapsody in the Key of X   
  
Tycho Celchu sat in his office at HQ, trying to plow through the drift   
of paper work that had claimed his desk as its final resting place. He had   
only twenty minutes until his patrol and the office had seemed like an apt   
place to light inbetween chaotic shifts. However, Rogue secrety, Meg, had   
cornered him instantly admidst one of her infamous lectures, along the lines   
of, "...not my responsibility to do your personal paper work," and so on.   
Tycho had, ultimatly, no alternative than to retire to his desk and immerse   
himself in the monotony.   
  
"Mee-eeg, Tyyy-yyychoo," Wedge whined, virtually a petulant child,   
"Have you seen the Brentaal flight records?"   
"Did you check under, 'B'?" came the exasperated secretary's reply.   
"What?"   
"'B', Wedge," Tycho sighed, "'B', for Brentaal." Tycho paused for a   
moment, before asking the inevitable question he knew he would regret.   
"Where were you looking?"   
"Under 'F', for 'Flight'," Wedge murmured, perplexed, as if this was   
a perfectly normal confusion.   
From the far desk, Meg adopted the tone she used when reconciling   
the doubts of her five year old daughter. "Wedge, how many mission reports   
do you think we write a year that could be considered, 'Flight Records'?"   
Wedge shrugged, genuinly miffed. "A hundred? Two hundred?"   
"Wedge, we keep the whole wing's records here, not just Rogue   
Squadron. Rogue WING, Wedge."   
"Oh yeah," he muttered, "A couple thousand?"   
"Conservitaly speaking." She drew a tired breath and continued,   
trying not to be too condescending. "And if we put them all under 'F',   
how many 'F' drawers do you figure we would need?"   
"A lot?"   
"Yeah Wedge, a lot. And if we had seventeen drawers for 'F', how   
long do you figure it would take to find a single file?"   
"Alright, alright, I get it," blushed Wedge, thoroughly abashed.   
Tycho shook his mop of blonde hair, his cereulan eyes smiling. He   
couldn't fathom life with out Wedge and just kept reminding himself what a   
brilliant pilot the young man was. Tycho glanced at his chrono and breathed   
a sigh of relief.   
"I'm off," he stated, pushing away from the desk. "Patrol time."   
"C'ya Tycho." Meg flashed him a knowing grin before adding, "And   
good luck tonight."   
Tycho offered her a rare over-the-shoulder blonde-over-blue fly boy   
smile before playfully chiding her, "There's no such thing as luck."   
Meg watched her Adonis retreat, the smile fading from her lips. Did   
She comprehend his perfection? She let a tired sigh escape as she murmered,   
"I only wish it could be me, Celch." She shook her head ruefully and   
chastized her own naivete, turning her mind back to paperwork, what to serve   
for dinner, when the twins would be home, and the other divine pleasures of   
single motherhood.   
  
  
Tycho Celchu catapaulted out of his X-Wing cockit, genuinly nervous   
for the first time in years. His entire mind revolved around the still   
awkward logistics and over-practiced words. He knew all too well that tonight   
had to be perfect, and that was one thing he doubted he could be.   
Tycho unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside, throwing his   
things on the davenport. Trying to quiet the storming thoughts that waged war   
within his skull, he slipped into the shower. The mindless routine and   
soothing water were effective enough, and he emerged a few minutes later,   
drying his hair with a towel, his mind somewhat clearer. As he slid into the   
clothes he had laid out earlier; a white silk shirt and black slacks, he   
couldn't help but wonder what Wedge would select to wear on an evening such   
as this.   
"Probably magenta and olive green," he smirked, "Or a flight suit."   
Tycho was momentarily lost in the humorous mental image, but was suddenly   
awoken from his reverie by the doorbell's tone. His stomach churned in   
fretful anticipation. "This is it," he thought, and opened the door.   
Special Agent Winter leaned against the threshhold, looking as   
ravishing as anyone could. Her platinum mane was played gently about,   
smooting the sharp contours of her face and angular cheek bones. Her skin   
was milky pale, and her acid green eyes were lined with kohl, so that they   
seemed to sing with their own inner light. A slinky back dress rode the   
perfect curves of her impossibly toned body in a manner that escaped rhetoric   
itself.   
Tycho stumbled at first, unable to articulate this goddess he beheld.   
"Winter," he whispered, in a voice drenced with reverant sincerity, "You're   
beautiful."   
Winter smiled in a wickedly seductive way that only she was capable   
of. "I know. You're not so bad yourself, fly boy."   
Tycho grinned wryly, and offered her his arm, "Let's go, shall we?"   
"Yes," she replied, taking the outstretched arm. "We'll make the   
other couples jealous."   
While her touch sent electric pleasure down his spine, for a moment   
he forgot to be nervous. It only took a moent for him to recall why he loved   
her and why he was doing this to begin with and then-, then he simply smiled.   
Tonight was any other night, only better.   
  
A soft glow enveloped the all but vacant gardens of Little Alderaan,   
languid tendrils of light drifting from the mock Alderaani night sky. Tycho   
felt Winter lean closer to him, enraptured by the microcosm that he had   
presented to her.   
"It's perfect," she breathed, "It's almost home."   
Tycho nodded. "I come hear whenever I get homesick."   
He lead her to a small waterfall where crystal waters cascaded over   
smoothed stones, sitting on the bank with Winter as his side. He drew a   
quiet breath and began his speech. "Back at home, when I was young and in   
love for the first time, I used to go the observation deck at Triwithu falls   
and imagine how I would propose. I had a whole speech planned, complete with   
Shakespeare quotes and an analogy to my love flowing as long as the water   
fell."   
Tycho paused to catch his breath, then continued, "When Alderaan   
was deystroyed, and Nessie with her, I thought it had all ended, that I   
had lost everything. Even if I ever found someone else, it could never again   
be a spring day at the Falls. All I really lost were the words.   
"When I met you, Winter, I was right back to before. My mind went   
back and found those words, but suddenly they seemed so very trite. It   
seemed like an insult to compare my love for you to a river that would one   
day dry up. And the strangest thing was, I no longer missed Alderaan, for   
she lives on in the heart s of her children. Every breath, every word, every   
move you make is the essence of Alderaan- good, true, loving and beautiful,   
even if others can't understand you. Winter, my every day would be complete,   
and for once my heart would be at peace, if," his voice fell to a whisper   
and he dropped to his knee, producing a small velvet box, "If you, Lady   
Winter of the House of Organa, would marry me."   
  
  
Megan searched through the cabinet, determined to find the file and   
to not think about Tycho for five consecutive minutes. She was vaguely   
aware that someone was lingering in the doorway, but it eluded her as to why   
the individuals presence was of her concern.   
Meg peeled back a stack of papers labled "Yavin Tic Tac Toe Games"   
to finally reveal the Thyferra flight record she was looking for. She   
snatched the file and slammed it on the desk, quickly regaining her composure   
as she realised the visitor had entered the office.   
A short, akward woman stood near Megan's desk, nervously fiddling   
with her mousey brown hair.   
"May I help you?" Meg questioned, perhaps too caustic.   
"I hoope so," the woman chirped anxiously, "I'm Nyestra DeNari, I'm   
looking for Tycho Celchu."   
A file fell to the floor, suddenly forgotten as tears clouded the   
secretary's eyes.   
"Oh Maker, it cant be true..." she whispered.


End file.
